


Melius Est Nomen Bonum Quam Divitiae Multae

by SkyHighDisco



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Family, Friendship, Funny, Gen, Hala Madrid, Humor, Real Madrid CF, Seriously there is a Sherlock Holmes reference, Sherlock Modrić, shady!Gareth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 22:29:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16105118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyHighDisco/pseuds/SkyHighDisco
Summary: Luka can't believe Gareth's middle name.





	Melius Est Nomen Bonum Quam Divitiae Multae

**Author's Note:**

> When I first found out about it, my reaction was a bit milder than Luka's. Who can help it? When I hear 'Frank', a random old dude's face springs before my eyes. 
> 
> Also, the broad-eyed readers will spot an obvious Sherlock Holmes reference here, because let's admit amongst ourselves, that scene was the funniest one after an episode where they get drunk. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Luka had never been more frustrated and perplexed in his entire career. Something he didn't show or mention, in public or to his friends, was how much he hated losing. And in one hand, this was it.

It all started one day in a half-empty compound conference room, where the only ones present were the lot of them, and a random manager dude none of them had ever seen, having to sign a boatload of shit paper related to marketing. Nobody knew what it was about and nobody liked where it was going, but a job was a job, however shady it may be appearing. Varane was the only one who had guts to ask out loud what the flop was Perez up to again.

As per usual, Luka was seated next to Gareth. They didn't even pay attention to it anymore, one was just there next to the other, and the other would acknowledge his presence even with his back turned. So many years together must've left a trail that was impossible to be wiped out ever again. They were as comfortable around each other as Ramos was comfortable stripping down stark naked in the full locker room in half-time.

Luka swiped his signature over the line with less enthusiasm than usual and protruded his lip to blow a stray lock of hair away, which then rebelliously settled back to its rightful place, and Luka had to use a hand to agitatedly smooth it back. He left a palm to rest on the chin, cupping his mouth and just happened to innocently peek to his left and therefore on Gareth's own paper.

The Welshman was apparently actually reading whatever commercial nonsense the mini-contract had to offer, sky-blue eyes fleeting over the tiny stamped-out words. He frowned, just about to reprimand him for it, but then spotted the bolded letters in the middle which signified each player's name and therefore speciating every individual contract. The Croat leaned in slightly, frown growing.

Luka's eyes flew to Gaz's. ˮGareth _F._ Bale?"

Gareth looked at him swiftly, nothing notable in his expression, then turned back to the papers, lining them up to stack them aside like they were something of bigger importance than his friend. ˮYup."

Luka squinted, eyes still pinning the Welshman's right temple before leaning away slowly. Since Gareth decided not to provide him with any further explanation on an eloquent answer, Luka wasn't going to pry. But damn him if he's gonna just walk away.

The game was afoot.

To his right, Marcelo eyed them both, paused for a second, and then promptly leaned over Luka to see what was so important, the older one choking on the Brazilian's wacky curls.

  
  


Any time in Valdebebas cafeteria should be normal. Normal in a sense that the ambiance murmur and clinging of cutlery shouldn't be a cause to make him feel anyhow distracted.

But an anomaly probing at his gut still made the Welshman look up.

Luka was staring him down like an exceptionally interesting exhibit in an exotic zoo. No, staring was too weak. His chestnut eyes were roaming around his face from across the table like it was dipped in gold, and Gareth felt a surge of sudden discomfort at this boldly intimate strike. Nevertheless, he managed to keep enough composure to not give in to the impulse to stand up and speed-walk away, leaving the half-finished lunch behind.

„What?"

Luka pouted pensively. ˮJust trying to figure out which _'F'_ you look like from your face."

Gareth tsk-ed, back to picking around his cauliflower. He couldn't believe one of the best footballers he had ever met had the capacity to act so immaturely.

ˮYou're unbelievable..."

  
  


„Finn?"

Bale sighed, well aware it probably screwed up his entire breathing rhythm. His legs obviously didn't give a crap. ˮShut up."

  
  


Luka paused in a sitting position, face mere centimeters from Gareth's, that puzzled expression twisting his aquiline facial features.

„Fabio."

Gareth scrunched up his face in tandem, arms wrapped underneath Luka's knees, but he didn't back away from the Croatian's provoking proximity. Their teammates tirelessly resumed the assigned sit-ups, unhampered by the arguing duo.

ˮThat's not even English."

  
  


Not even the hissing of the shower could drown out the voice crying from the door's entrance.

„ _Filip?_ "

Slapping his cheeks with both hands twice, Bale didn't bother to turn the water off or turn around. ˮThat doesn't start with 'f'."

Judging by the unchanged distance of the voice, its owner thankfully remained where he was before proceeding past the communal showers. ˮIt does where I come from."

  
  


It didn't take another two tries for Luka to realize each following suggestion was futile. He might as well sit down on the grass and sulk like a kid on temper tantrum. Gareth wasn't giving him absolutely anything, and it was slowly starting to drive him 'bonkers', Gaz's own particularly fond expression.

Now it was getting personal.

He probably realized bribing Vanja to call Emma to ask her was useless even before he had required as much. His better half gave a single snort of discontent and told him to mind his business or google it because she certainly wasn't going to be in the middle of another mess caused by their testosterone-driven men. When he shrugged and slid her over that lethal 'bros before hoes' comeback, he had never run as fast in his entire career to avoid a thrown Bible.

Marcelo shrugged helplessly when asked if he knew, and declined the suggestion Clarisse do the thing Vanja volunteered out of a bit too quickly, feigning insulted he would do such a thing. (ˮWho do you take me for? How bold do you think I am?" ˮNot enough." ˮ...And you'd be right.") The rest of his teammates were excluded; no one knew Bale better than Luka did, and the fact that he was stuck in the mud made him realize how deep he dug himself into.

He didn't google it like Vanja suggested, or tried to play any other ace which he didn't have up his sleeve anyway. He was too proud for that, and that Croationally-stubborn part of him insisted it would be cheating. The subject was eventually dropped, even as it still lingered at the back of his mind, but after a few weeks, it became invisible like a dull white noise that didn't need additional attention.

The issue resurfaced surprisingly through the mouth of one old colleague Kyle Walker, whom Luka had a joy and pleasure to find on facecam that morning. In the end, the a-lot-of-cathing-up-to-do chatter stretched out through the breakfast and into the walking out on training when Kyle spotted another familiar figure heating up for the exercises over Modrić's shoulder.

„Is that Gareth?"

„Yeah, that's him. Ugly as ever, eh?"

„Yup. Nothing's changed there."

„Oh, and he refuses to tell me his middle name, can you believe that?"

„What, Frank?"

Boom.

Every cell in Luka's body stopped its bio-course like a neverending-fuel-having Japanese _Shinkansen_ for a brief second. It was like he ceased to exist in that mili-moment of absolute incomprehension of his surroundings.

Then he was on the grass. He was on the grass kicking his legs and screaming, successfully taking away about ten years of lives of the nearest colleagues. Marcelo bolted like a shotgun bullet so fast that he realized his Croatian friend wasn't dying already before he was able to stop the headless rush. Then he just stood there with the confusion of a prehistoric caveman marveling at modern graffiti sprinkled over his face while Luka kept gripping his stomach.

The Croat managed to drop the phone in the meantime, so his poor ex-Tottenham-colleague was left calling him out to empty air on the other side of the motionless screen.

Nacho ran over with a huge amused grin across his face and grabbed Modrić's wrists, trying to pull him up with no avail; his fellow teammate wouldn't cooperate. He kept giggling like a lunatic. ˮLuka, what the hell?"

„Oh boy, did you break Lukita again?" Lucas asked, running over as well.

The accused Marcelo jumped. ˮI- wha- - _wasn't even near him!_ "

„ _Frank!_ " Luka shrieked through the lung-crushing rushes of laughter still assaulting his abdominal muscles, and gripped Nacho's arm with one hand, pointing at the third approaching figure with the other. ˮFra—" Unable to finish because of a new fit or overall absurdity, Luka was swept off again.

Gareth stared while still-grinning Nacho had to crouch down whereupon Luka immediately gripped him like a lifeline and buried his face in his shoulder, giggles not keen on subsiding anytime soon. Then he spotted the phone laying on the grass, screen-up. He picked it up and frowned.

„Kyle?"

„Hey, man. Nice to see you. What's all this about?"

The frown deepened. ˮWhat did you tell him?"

„I don't even know what I was supposed to say!"

Gareth sighed with an eye-roll that could make heaven crumble.

Luka wasn't finished with announcing his new discovery far and wide, and what did Nacho's shoulder do to get slapped on with such a force? ˮFrank! Nacho! His- his name is _Frank!_ "

Apologizing to his old colleague with a promise he would contact him properly later, Gaz turned the facecam off and immediately crossed his arms. By now the others were starting to get drawn by the loud tumult. ˮSo? Can't a father honor his son?"

„Yeah, but Frank", Marcelo said, facial features beginning to get twisted by a traitorous grin while he watched Nacho trying to calm Luka down who had tears streaming down his face. ˮI think Lukita here thinks it makes you sound old."

„It does not!" Bale fumed.

„Yeah. Yes, it does", Lucas nodded along, jumping at Gaz's piercing icy glare.

„No really, it sounds like you're a husband to a particularly edgy middle-aged wife.“ Then the Real Madrid's Jim Carrey took a deep breath and proceeded to introduce his best imitation of the said character: ˮ _Frank! What's going on? Did you prepare dinner? Did you sign us up for a massage? Did you do_ anything? _I'll stay in this bitch by myself, Frank, it don't matter, since you obviously expect me to do the whole thing on my own, you lazy hat. I'm sick of bitches bitching about other bitches, Frank, but you happen to be one of them, so man your ass up!_ “

His intent worked. Nacho joined Luka in hysterics while they held each other in a death grip. Lucas tried to hide desperate giggles behind his palms and Marcelo smiled at Gareth who looked like he was going to detonate then and there.

They eventually managed to get a hold of themselves and moved on to the exercises, to the entire team's relief, but Gareth didn't stop sulking and refused to look at either of them until Luka wrapped an amicable arm around his shoulders leaning his forehead against Bale's shoulder because it was only as far as he could reach, damn height. Gaz turned his head away.

But Luka was there to conduct an unrefusable finale. ˮAnd here you have the proof, my friend: you make my day by just existing."

Despite himself, despite his wounded pride, Gareth was still a bad actor; he smiled.


End file.
